The Union Square Farmers Market: Fresh Basil in a Concrete City

I’ve been coming to New York my whole life. Not for Broadway, not shopping, not even the museums-- though I do love all those things. It’s always been about eating here. Steaming pho in the Village. A buttery scone the size of my face. Bagels so warm I have to juggle it from hand to hand. At the heart of it all, the Union Square Farmers Market.

Picture this: farmers decked in overalls and head bandanas haul crates of peaches to their stands, sounds of sizzling sausage samples crackle through the air, and through the buzz of chatter a woman yells, “cold water, one dollar!” There are no tourists snapping Instagram shots and cooing over the latest TikTok fad like at Bryant Park, or Times Square. Here, there are only locals, a fantastic medley of odd characters. A hurried looking Parisian perches a bright red beret atop her fierce bob, while next to her a bespeckled elderly woman ambles on, unconcerned with the passing of time. I’m there with my “farmer’s market face” on, a deadly mix of hunting down the stinkiest cheese, sneaking tastes of tiny cherry tomatoes, and critiquing each heirloom tomato until I discern the ugliest one.

Farmers markets are in some ways universal. I grew up going to a smaller one nearby, where I used to gobble down apple-cider donuts, and pull out my hair trying to decide which flavor of honey stick I would get. The stalls are smaller there, the pace slower, but the magic is still there. The produce is not just fresh, it’s alive. I can smell the sweetness of a melon before you taste it. I can brush the dirt off huge radishes, proof of their place in the dirt.

Union Square is the same idea, amplified to eleven. My favorite stand is Gorzinsky's, a farm from Cochecton, New York. It is run by a stringy, dirt-caked man of few words, who could easily be real-life Linus from my favorite game, Stardew Valley. He’s got the same gentle, earthy energy, and this moment, chatting with me about kale varieties, is exactly where he wants to be. He’ll tell me what cabbage variety is best right now, and when to come back for the first sugar snap peas of spring.

What I love about Union Square is how it’s simultaneously extremely local and completely diverse. One stand might be selling obscure Japanese microgreens, while another offers Russet potatoes from a farm only ten miles from the city. Chefs trained extensively at Le Cordon Bleu are buying the same carrots as an NYU student who’s just learning to cook. Food here is accessible, simple, and most importantly, fresh. 

And there’s something quietly magical about standing in the heart of Manhattan, surrounded by thousands of commuters whizzing by on city bikes and some of the most impressive feats of civilization, holding a bunch of fresh basil still warm from the sun. It grounds me, holding firm that nature sets its own clock, indifferent to the world’s usual high-set tempo.

At night, when I’m cooking, turning Gorzinsky’s cucumbers into late night munchie or snacking on mandolined radishes soaked in lemon juice, I taste both a quiet farm and an electric metropolis. The Union Square Farmers Market brings out both the part of me that loves wandering through the woods, and the part that thrives amid New York’s bustling energy. Rooted in soil, yet alive in the rush.